It was raining heavily outside. She shook out her umbrella, debating whether or not to catch a cab. She decided against it. The tube station was just down the road and the underground would take her to within two blocks of Kerry’s flat. It would be quicker than going there by road.
At the tube station Jackson had no idea of her destination so bought a Go-As-You-Please ticket that allowed him unrestricted travel on the underground for four days. He boarded the adjoining carriage to hers and sat where he could see through to where she was sitting. Tessa pulled a magazine from her bag and began to read.
Jackson was surprised when they reached South Kensington Station and Tessa rose to leave the train. He kept her in sight, staying behind half-a-dozen other passengers. She walked out of the tube station and turned left. It was still raining. Five minutes later, outside a terraced house that had been converted into flats, Tessa stopped. She rummaged in her bag, produced a key and disappeared inside.
Jackson waited for a couple of minutes then followed. There were six letterboxes outside, the same number of doorbells and a single loudspeaker panel. The names over individual buttons meant nothing to him. Then he noticed that the outer door had not shut properly. But which flat did Tessa enter? He felt in his pocket and found the piece of paper on which he’d written Tessa’s address. He folded it several times and wedged it over the latch. Then he crossed the street and, taking cover in a bus shelter, stared upwards. There! Movement at a window on the first floor. The curtains opened and Tessa stood, stretching. As far as he could tell, she was not speaking to anyone inside. Was she alone?
He ducked back out of sight as her gaze travelled slowly along the street. When next he looked, she was gone.
Now what? He could knock on the door of the flat and, when she opened it, force his way inside. But what if she had company? He could brazen it out, try charm, get inside and then, if they were alone, kill her. What if she wouldn’t let him in? Why should she? If he barged in against her will and there was a man in the flat, what then? Leave, pretend to be an outraged ex-lover. It was flimsy but it was the best Jackson could come up with. A bus came along, slowed when it saw him but picked up speed as he waved it by. He was thinking too much. Tessa was not Tessa, she was the hit. That’s what he’d been taught. ‘Don’t think of civilians, women or innocent children. They’re just a means to an end. Think of the cause.’
Committed, Jackson left the bus shelter, entered the building and almost ran up the stairs to the first floor. There were only two flats on that level, the one to the left obviously at the front of the building. He knocked. His breathing was steady, his mind focused. The door opened. Before she had time to recognise him and react, he had pushed her back, stepped inside and shut the door with his foot.
‘Jackson! What on earth . . .’
His eyes darted around. Two doors he could see. The lounge was empty. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . no, Kerry, quick.’
No-one came. Jackson looked at her and smiled. ‘There’s no-one else is there?’
Tessa was overcoming her shock. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She would fight back. He had to act now. Jackson stepped towards her, hands reaching out.
Tessa had, at Judith’s insistence, learned a bit of self-defence. Nothing special, just a few moves in case she ever found herself in trouble. She stepped back, crouching slightly. ‘What do you want?’
Jackson lunged and she sidestepped, grabbing an arm and twisting.
‘Bitch!’ He’d shown his hand too soon. He flung her off with ease. She backed away, face white, fear in her eyes. Reaching into his pocket, Jackson drew out the knife he’d taken from Dyson’s kitchen.
‘Jackson, don’t.’ She had backed against the far wall. ‘Please. We can talk.’
He had to act fast, before she screamed. His move was quick but she sidestepped again. Concentrating on the knife, she tripped on a leather pouf and nearly lost her balance. Jackson swung, but she threw up an arm and the blade sliced it to the bone. Tessa opened her mouth to scream and he was on her, throwing aside the knife, his hands grasping for her throat. She fought like a wildcat. They crashed to the floor, knocking over a lampstand. Blood flowed freely from her arm. There was so much of it. It was everywhere. His hands were slippery from it. He squeezed and squeezed. Would she ever be still? By the time it was over his hands and arms had cramped.
Wheezing for air, he staggered to his feet. Jesus! Look at it! Blood up the wall, on the floor, staining the sofa. His stomach heaved and, bent double, he sought the bathroom, not making it and vomiting on the bedroom carpet. A full-length mirror showed that he too was covered in Tessa’s blood. The cupboard revealed a man’s wardrobe. That would do. He found the bathroom, stripped and showered. Helping himself to the unknown benefactor’s clothing, he dressed in corduroy trousers, a shirt and jersey. There were shoes, but too small a size, so he wiped the blood off his own and put them back on. An oilskin jacket was hanging behind the door, which he grabbed before going back into the lounge. Tessa hadn’t moved. Cautiously, he approached, watching for any sign of breathing. Nothing. He did not want to touch her.
In the small kitchen, Jackson found her handbag. There was nearly £350 in it. A fortune. He went to put it in his wallet then realised it was not there. Get hold of yourself. The wallet and a key to Dyson’s flat. There was nothing else in his pockets, but he went through them three times to be sure before stuffing them into a plastic bag which he rolled up and placed inside a larger, sturdier bag. He’d get rid of them somewhere. He’d been carrying a knife. The knife! Where the hell did it go? He spent five minutes frantically searching before he found it. It had skittered under a chair when he flung it away. He picked it up using a paper kitchen towel. He’d have to get rid of it. No. Clean it and take it back, otherwise Dyson would miss it.
Before leaving Jackson had one last, long look at Tessa. Even dead and covered with blood she was beautiful.
Jackson was back in Dyson’s flat by a-quarter-past-five. By the time his brother arrived home, he had their dinner cooking and the knife, thoroughly scrubbed, was back in the drawer where it belonged. Conversation between them soon lapsed. They had nothing in common. Television spared them the effort of talking to each other. Jackson had already decided to try to change his flights back to Zambia. He’d much rather spend time in Lusaka than London. Anyway, just to be safe, it would be best to leave England as quickly as possible.
In the morning, having feigned sleep until Dyson left, Jackson dressed and went out to find some breakfast before calling at a travel agency. They were most helpful but could not get him on to a flight until the following Tuesday. Today was Wednesday. Nearly a whole week to wait.
Tessa’s body was discovered the following day by the woman who cleaned the flat. Inspector John Dyer of New Scotland Yard pulled the case and arrived around 10 a.m. with his assistant Detective Sergeant Brian O’Callaghan. ‘Good-looking bird,’ Dyer commented.
The char, a Mrs Webb, was in the kitchen drinking tea and talking excitedly to anyone on the forensics team who would listen. Dyer wouldn’t listen. O’Callaghan was not surprised when his boss, with customary disregard for good manners, overrode her monologue.
‘What’s the young lady’s name?’
‘How should I know?’ The woman was miffed at the policeman’s lack of interest in the fact that she just knew something was wrong the moment she’d put her key in the door.
‘Who owns the flat?’
‘Dunno, luv. You’ll have to ask the agency.’
‘Which agency?’ Dyer asked heavily.
‘Sir.’ O’Callaghan had Tessa’s handbag. ‘There’s a card in her purse.’ He was peering inside and read it with difficulty, not wanting to interfere with possible evidence. ‘Tessa King.’
‘Address?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t read it, sir.’
Dyer sighed. ‘Okay, get down to the cleaning agen
cy and find out what you can. I’ll poke around here and do the neighbours. Someone must have seen or heard something.’ He glared at the suddenly silent Mrs Webb. ‘You won’t be working here today. Might as well give the constable a statement and hop it.’
She rose stiffly and he added, ‘Oh, and don’t go disappearing to Majorca or anything like that, will you, love. We’ll want to talk to you again.’
Her only response was a loud sniff of disapproval.
John Dyer went to check on progress in the lounge. The pathologist had arrived. Christ! The girl had been stunning. Still was. ‘Jesus! What a fucking waste. Hello Doc, when can you give me something?’
Later the same day, Dyer and O’Callaghan drove to Hertford. They had obtained the address from Judith Murray-Brown. From years of practice, they were professional, sympathetic and impatient to get on with the case. Claire Dawson broke down and had to be given a sedative. The two detectives were left with a white-faced but calm Michael King, apparently the dead girl’s brother.
‘The occupant of the flat above says she saw a black man hanging around the bus shelter outside. She thought it was strange because he didn’t seem interested in catching a bus. Did your sister know any black men?’
‘My sister knew a lot of men, Inspector. She was a professional companion,’ Michael said flatly.
Dyer blinked. He had known that, just hadn’t expected to hear it put so bluntly by her brother.
‘The flat belongs to a man called Kerry Glasshouse from York. He can account for his movements. Right now, he’s probably trying to account for his reasons. His wife had no knowledge of the place.’ Dyer grinned, then coughed and covered his mouth, remembering who Michael was. ‘Is there anything you know about your sister that might assist with our inquiries?’
‘Sorry, nothing.’
‘Are you sure, sir? If you need a moment to think . . .’
‘Inspector Dyer, I’ve only been in England for a few months. In that time, I’ve seen my sister once. Why don’t you speak with Judith Murray-Brown? She might be of more help.’
‘We’ll be doing that, sir.’ Dyer rubbed his thumbs against his temple, a habit that had virtually removed the hair from either side of his head. ‘Mr King, if, as you say, your sister was a . . . hostess, and if Mr Glasshouse let her use his flat in London, it would appear that they had some kind of special arrangement. What I’m trying to say, sir, is that I don’t believe she would take another client to that particular flat. So where does that leave us?’
‘Somebody she didn’t know,’ Michael suggested.
‘Want to know what I think?’ Dyer said to O’Callaghan as they drove back to London.
O’Callaghan made no response. Dyer would tell him anyway.
‘I think Michael King is hiding something.’
‘You think he did it?’
‘No. But I think he knows more than he’s telling us.’
Black man. Black man. Michael could not get it out of his mind. There were millions of black men in London. Why then did the name Jackson keep coming into his head?
It was on the nine o’clock news that night. Not a major story, simply that a woman had been found dead in South Kensington, that she had been identified as Tessa King and that the circumstances surrounding her death were suspicious. Both Dyson and Jackson were watching the bulletin.
‘No!’ It burst from Dyson, a cry of horror.
Jackson was startled at the raw pain in his brother’s voice. ‘Tessa! Well, well. I guess she got what she deserved.’
Dyson had a sharp retort ready but the look on Jackson’s face stopped it. Dyson had seen that look before, many times before, when Jackson was growing up. It was secretive, gloating. In a blinding flash of realisation, Dyson knew that it was Jackson who had murdered Tessa. Without a word, he rose and went to the drawer where he kept the address book. He flipped it open under Jackson’s nose. ‘You found this.’ Dyson could barely speak. ‘You found this and you couldn’t leave things alone. Why, Jackson? What in God’s name made you do it?’
‘Do what?’ Jackson’s eyes were wide. ‘What are you talking about?’
Dyson flung the address book down. ‘You know very well what I’m talking about.’
‘I swear to God, I don’t. What’s got into you? So Tessa’s dead. What makes you think I had anything to do with it?’
Dyson paced the small room, rubbing a hand abstractedly over his hair. ‘I should have known. You bastard! What were you afraid of? That I’d tell Tessa about you blowing up Michael’s family?’ He broke off and stared at Jackson. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
Jackson rose. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘you do remember.’
‘Of course I remember. You don’t think I’d forget something like that.’
‘And?’
Dyson frowned at him. ‘And what? You’re my brother.’
Jackson forced himself to look grateful.
‘You’ll have to go. I won’t have you staying here knowing . . .’ He choked, and tears ran down his face. ‘I was in love with her,’ he said hoarsely.
Jackson actually laughed. ‘With Tessa! You must be joking. She was a whore.’
A deadly cold rage ran through Dyson. His brother was evil. ‘I know what she was. I loved her anyway.’ His voice was soft. ‘I loved you enough to forget who turned her into one, enough to hide the fact that you were in London.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I loved you enough to betray my best friend.’
They were facing each other, eye-to-eye, no more than two metres apart. A message communicated itself. The other had to die. Both men reacted instantly, stepping up and trading blows. This was no scuffle in the heat of the moment. This was kill or be killed, a desperate hate-filled fight to the death. Punches found their mark and went unfelt. Furniture smashed and went unheard. Their eyes were locked tightly, while that which bound their hearts sprang open.
Dyson was losing. The rage that gave him strength was not enough to combat his brother’s five years of bush-hardened stamina. Jackson had a grip on his throat and Dyson saw the murderous punch coming, saw the intent in his brother’s eyes, and was helpless to avoid it. The blow caught him squarely on the jaw, knocking him off his feet. He went over backwards and his head made contact with the hard marble hearth of the small fireplace. A sickening crunch of bone and flesh, and Dyson knew no more.
Reality returned slowly to Jackson. He became aware of someone banging on the wall and shouts of, ‘Shut up in there or we’ll call the police.’ He looked at the trashed room. How long had they been fighting? The adrenalin rush left and he felt weak. Dyson lay unmoving, blood spreading out from under his head. The banging stopped and he heard voices in the hall.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Haven’t a clue. A fight of some kind.’
‘Bloody wogs. Bunch of savages if you ask me.’ Doors closed. Silence descended.
I have to get away.
Jackson went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Swollen top lip, cut eyebrow, left eye beginning to close. He splashed water on his face, wincing at the sting. A small tin of Zam-Buk, an ointment used extensively in Africa for anything from mosquito bites to sore muscles or burns, was on the side of the sink. Wondering how Dyson managed to find it in London, Jackson smeared the soothing cream on his lips and eyes.
Returning to the lounge, he searched carefully for anything that might give away his presence. Then, picking up his suitcase, he went to the door. Dyson still hadn’t moved and Jackson, eyes flicking over the body of his brother in one last search of the room, wasted no time on pity or sorrow.
He encountered no-one on the stairs. He walked three blocks before splurging on a cab, asking the driver to recommend somewhere cheap but clean to stay. He was taken to a bed and breakfast establishment in Earls Court. There he booked a room, paying for four days in advance. Feeling anonymous and safe, he decided that London wasn’t as bad as he first thought.
Dyson was not dead, though he was perilously close to dea
th. An elderly Nigerian man in the flat below had been roused by the fight from where he was dozing in front of his television. He listened for several minutes before picking up the telephone and reporting a serious disturbance. The police arrived thirty minutes later. Two police constables broke down Dyson’s door and found him. He was rushed to hospital where an emergency operation was carried out to remove pressure from his brain. He was then put into intensive care.
Detective Inspector John Dyer had not been assigned to the Dyson Mpande attack but a colleague who worked out of the same office was. Going through Dyson’s address book, the name Tessa King rang a bell. It was a couple of hours before he remembered that John Dyer was working on the murder of a hooker by that name. When Dyer asked to see the book, a piece of paper fell out bearing Michael’s name and telephone number.
Dyer and O’Callaghan went back to see Michael. ‘Do you know a Dyson Mpande?’ Dyer got straight to the point.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you aware that he was viciously attacked last night in his flat?’
‘No.’ Michael went cold. First Tessa, now this. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s in intensive care in Shaftesbury Hospital.’
‘God! I’ve got to see him.’
‘He won’t be taking visitors for a few days. He may not pull through at all.’ Dyer gave Michael a couple of seconds to absorb the information. ‘I’m not involved in this case but for one thing. Your sister’s name was in his address book. Come to that, so was yours.’
‘They would be,’ Michael said absently, still trying to take it in.
‘Mind telling me why?’
Michael took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. ‘Dyson and I grew up together. His parents used to work for us in South Africa. They probably gave him this address when my mother remarried and moved here and I know they gave him Tessa’s. They saw each other occasionally.’
‘Perhaps it was this Mpande who murdered your sister?’
‘No.’ Not that Mpande.
‘Bit of a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you say? Someone trying to kill him too.’
People of Heaven Page 42
